Everyone in Arroyo Grande had either witnessed or already received a firsthand account of Ashley Cooper’s spectacular high-speed exit from the south, trailed by another dozen witnesses who had lost her trail just before the entourage reached the snarled traffic at the edge of San Bernardino. Eyewitnesses described the driver as a young blonde female in a pale blue hoodie, a beauty princess waving as she passed by.

  The descriptions of the driver matched Ashley perfectly, right down to the chipper Ms. Arroyo Grande wave as the sheriff pulled up to the bikini coffee kiosk. Poised at the pass-through counter as if she had been there all afternoon, scrolling through her phone, Ms. Cooper turned to prepare an Americano as the sheriff parked his cruiser.

  Occam’s Razor states that the simplest explanation is probably the best, no matter how improbable. Even if just about everybody in town just watched Ashley Cooper hit a land speed record on her way out of town, she was definitely standing at the kiosk despite all probability. As it so happened, Etherton was ready for a drink. The coffee would have to suffice until something stronger came along. He stretched out as he slid out of the cruiser, appraising the collection of high schoolers already gathered in the Silver Spoon parking lot.

  “Took ya long enough,” Ashley said, setting his favorite mug on the counter.

  “Slow news day.” The sheriff responded, still waiting for a camera crew to appear and reveal the practical joke. “I must have dozed off.”

  “Well, this oughta perk you right up.”

  The sheriff sipped his perfectly pulled Americano, admiring the crema. Except Ashley Cooper would never work the bikini coffee kiosk with bed head and big nerdy glasses on. He heard a sneeze from behind the counter and the jangle of the dog’s collar. That little dander factory of a dog would definitely raise some questions for the health department. “This your casual Friday?”

  “Had some paperwork to do.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Ashley punched the punt handle and pounded the spent espresso grounds with the slightest hint of a smile. “Heard the commotion. It never occurred to me that Mr. Ouija might be involved.”

  Etherton’s eyebrow raised involuntarily. “Mr. Ouija?” He only hoped that the third cook wasn’t involved. Or maybe it would be better if he was. Pin the car theft on the bomb-building drifter. Case closed, so as long as the guy never showed his face again. Classic.

  “My car, Sheriff.” She pouted. “My little black magic Mustang that you and yours couldn’t possibly catch on a straightaway?”

  Etherton sipped his coffee, waiting for a twitch, tick, or tell, but Ashley kept it straight. She looked mildly bemused as she said: “It was stolen, Sheriff.”

  The sheriff nodded, stifling a laugh. Blowing Americano out his nose might be offputting. “I heard.” He nodded again.

  “And where were you, Lawman?”

  “Just following up on some Stu Pedaso I met the other day.”

  Ashley scowled. “Language, Sheriff.” She wiped down the front of the espresso machine and tossed the rag in a milk crate on the floor. “But if it’s the same stupid asshole I just met, he says you should check the drainage culvert for those missing car parts.”

  Etherton sipped his coffee appreciatively. “You really are the best, Ash.”

  She rolled her eyes and checked her nails.

  “You don’t suppose,” Etherton proposed, cup poised a few inches from his lips. “That this Stu Pedaso was involved in the car theft, do you?”

  Ashley clicked her tongue at him. “Shame on you, Greg.”

  “Right.” He recognized his error immediately. “Snitches get stitches.”

  She smiled pleasantly. “Yes, but stoolies get baked goods.” She pulled a chocolate chip cookie from the rack and set it on the counter. Glancing over his shoulder to the front of the restaurant, she finally flinched. “Oh,” she said watching the commotion. “Uh oh.” She said as they heard the crack of broken glass.

  Etherton set his coffee cup on the counter, surrendering with a smile. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, nodding politely, he desperately needed a Stetson to tilt heroically.

  “Don’t forget your cookie.” She winked at him.

  By the time the Sheriff received the first call about a domestic disturbance down at Sancho’s, there were already two more calls queued up. Rather than answer the calls, Etherton rolled around the back of the restaurant, wondering why the dishwasher and the Tough Guys Club were gathered in the dumpster enclosure with a flashlight. As much as he would love to stop and stomp that little fire right out, witnesses calling from the scene at the front of the restaurant described a hammer-wielding black man in an apron. Flipping on his light bar and hitting the squelch a few times to clear the onlookers, his headlights froze the crime scene in progress. Terrence had Mr. Vickers by the shirt collar like he might pull him out the driver’s side window of the chem teacher's little white minivan. Petrified with terror, the science teacher looked sick. Only Earl moved, dropping the hammer and raising his hands immediately. Crowded with nosy teenagers, the front walkway cleared out as the sheriff stepped from his cruiser. Inside the restaurant, a few booths gawked at another bit of impromptu sidewalk theater.

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  “Alright, Terrence,” Etherton called.

  The baby-faced felon reluctantly released his grip on Vickers’ shirt front and dropped the pry bar to the pavement with a startlingly loud clatter. He raised his hands slightly, but still growled at the terrified science teacher.

  “You mind explaining the meat hammer?” Etherton asked as he collected the makeshift siege weapons from the asphalt like battlefield trophies.

  “Okay, Greg,” Earl offered, pushing up his sleeves and folding his arms over his chest. The gawkers lining the front booths watched in shock as the hammer-wielding black man strolled up to the sheriff’s side, taking his rightful place as a valued advisor. “Like, this fuckin’ pedophile here was stalking the only yellow cheese grilled-cheese girl, tryin’ to kidnap her, okay?” Earl shook his head. “Me and Teaspoon here just can’t abide by that.

  Terrence nodded his approval as he strolled up on the Sheriff’s other shoulder, bookending the lawman.

  “Vickers?” Sheriff asked.

  Vickers cleared his throat. “Ms. Nash and I,” he glanced back towards the restaurant as if his prized pupil might emerge and defend him, “we were discussing some scientific theories.” He glanced down at the handkerchief, indignantly inspecting the tiny dark blot as if he were at risk of bleeding out under a lengthy interrogation. “I had only hoped to finish our discussion when this man smashed my window and assaulted me.” He held the handkerchief out as proof of the assault. Maybe Mr. Vickers would have a fat lip for a few days, but the sheriff was sure Vickers would recover without a transplant or infusion.

  “Ms. Nash?” The sheriff glanced over at Earl.

  Earl shrugged. He knew her as yellow cheese-only grilled cheese girl.

  Lisa, still holding the orange-handled coffee pot stepped forward. “Little Jynx, Greg.”

  Earl turned on Mr. Vickers. “Like, what kind of science are you discussing with a little girl at this time of night?” he demanded.

  Vickers bristled at the implication of any impropriety. “Ms. Nash happens to be one of my best calculus students.”

  “Fuck yer calculus, bro!” Terrence made ready to launch at him again, but Lisa held him back.

  “Then why was she hiding from you?” Lisa asked, brandishing the decaf pot menacingly.

  Sheriff Etherton held up a hand, hoping to discourage her from bonking Vickers over the head with the tin-bottomed pot before he had to submit half a pot of decaf as another piece of evidence. “Alright guys, let’s all settle down.” Already the situation had shifted from a quick and easy intervention into a pile of requisite paperwork. Just the presence of Earl’s hammer was a stack of forms unto itself, but the assault and broken window would probably end in charges and litigation. In any other situation, he might have solved it with a round of beers down at The Starlight Lounge, but Vickers wasn’t the shoot-the-shit-over beers sort.

  The problem with a domestic disturbance, even just a plain old slapfight, was that he was legally obliged to remove or separate the participants. Even if they were probably right about the old guy, Etherton had to take Earl and Terrence in again. “Boys, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to get in the car,” he muttered.

  “Get the fuck outta here, Sheriff!” Terrence called before he could stop himself.

  “One motherfuckin’ black man in all Arroyo Grande and you’re going to arrest me?”

  “I’m not arresting you; I’m separating you.”

  “This is our motherfuckin’ restaurant. Take his creepy ass out of here.”

  “You threatened him with a meat tenderizer, Earl.”

  “Like, this fuckin’ guy’s perving on that little girl, but you gotta haul my ass in for lookin’ out?”

  “It’s just a formality, Earl.” The sheriff rubbed the back of his neck nervously. He wasn’t prepared to try to force the aces into the cruiser, and he honestly didn’t want to be bothered with any of it, but technicalities lost lawsuits. That the holding cell back at the station still smelled faintly of pot smoke and fried food flatulence didn’t help the situation. He was hoping to air the place out before he picked up another drunk driver. “I’m sure Dr. Vickers won’t be pressing charges. I just have to separate you two.”

  Vickers held out his lightly blood-speckled handkerchief. “That’s assault!” He stiffened with indignation. “He assaulted me!”

  Both Etherton and the aces stared at the push broom-mustached accuser like he was a pouting toddler. The very fact that Etherton was legally obliged to haul away his meal ticket was frustrating enough; threatening to lawyer up made the sheriff want to punch Dr. Vickers in the face himself. “If you want to explain to the board of education what you’re doing chasing a little teenager around town in the middle of the night, you go right ahead and press charges. I am more than happy to plug you into the sex offender database myself.” The sheriff opened the back door to the cruiser, offering it to Terrence and Earl. “Please, guys?”

  “Man, this is some racist bullshit.”

  “Humor me.”

  Earl pulled off his soiled apron, bundled it, and tossed it back towards the front sidewalk. He strolled around to the passenger side of the cruiser, opened the door, and slid into the front seat, muttering.

  Terrence snarled at Vickers. “Fuckin’ pedo.” He pulled his apron off and handed it to Lisa.

  “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?” Lisa asked, standing alone in front of Sancho’s with her coffee pot.

  Terrence went all baby-faced again as he was about to climb into the back seat for the second time in a few days. Hitch was gone and the dishwasher was stoned out of his gourd. Thanks to Jack’s disappointing daylight dinner combo, at least there was a saucepan of canned minestrone on the stovetop, ready to dump into the warmer. “Serve ‘em soup?” he shrugged.

  Just as the sheriff wondered if the deputies had started forwarding their calls to the local Homeowners associations, his phone rang again. Trigger or Nutsy, he didn’t particularly care which one it was, provided that they got their ass up off the couch and down to the scene for crowd control before he hung a help wanted sign up at the station. “Where the hell are you?” Glancing up the highway, however, his anger trailed off. To the north, the sky glowed like a bustling metropolis suddenly manifested at the far edge of town.

  “Sorry Sheriff, we couldn’t make it past Jack’s. It looks like every one of those damn feds is parked in front of the tow company right now, and half of them look like they’re armed for a Russian invasion.”

  Etherton grumbled to himself. On any other evening, he should be slipping out for a carton of raspberry sorbet to avoid his daughter’s bedtime ritual. Had he spent a little more time with his toddler daughter, he might have known that the Yahtzees were up to something. While he had interpreted the relative quiet of the supercops as a good sign, his wife would have known that they were getting themselves into trouble.

  “Yo, Greg, this is bullshit.” Earl opined.

  Etherton nodded, distracted by the halogen glare on the horizon. He passed the hammer and prybar back as he took his seat. “We’ll take a quick spin around the block; I’ll have you back in no time.”

  “Bro, you left the fuckin’ pedo in the rapist van back there,” Terrence muttered.

  “Yeah, like, what the hell happens if he gets to the yellow-only grilled cheese girl while we’re cruisin’ the strip, Greg?” Earl pulled on his seatbelt and slouched in the passenger seat. “Did you think about that?”

  “I will be getting to the bottom of all this momentarily. In the meantime, I gotta keep the peace, even if it's the wrong guys.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me right now, Greg?” Earl sulked.

  “I gave you your meat hammer back, Earl.” Etherton hung his head as he dropped it into reverse and backed out of the gathering crowd. “If you’re good, I’ll get you guys a cookie.”